


Hello, Little Girl

by edibleflowers



Series: Putting It Together [5]
Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Kissing, Mutual Masturbation, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha makes her interest in Bruce known. Bruce isn't quite as ready to join in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, Little Girl

**Author's Note:**

> So this turned into a monster, which seems somewhat appropriate. Hopefully it's worth the wait. This fic takes into account aspects of Bruce's control as seen in the Incredible Hulk movie, as it's canon in the MCU.

It doesn't take long for Bruce to catch on to what's been going on around Stark Tower. He may wear an absent expression and seem focused on his latest project, but he didn't survive a year in Calcutta -- or, for that matter, post-doctorate studies at Culver -- without being able to read tensions in the air and respond to them accordingly.

In this case, though, 'tension' hardly seems to be the appropriate word -- at least unless you put the word 'sexual' in front of it. And really, he isn't that surprised at what's going on. Stick several attractive adults of consenting age around each other and things are bound to happen. He could construct a formula to express it if it didn't seem so blatantly obvious. His tastes might read a little narrower than the others' -- for him, male beauty is something he generally only appreciates aesthetically -- but he can understand the appeal: Thor's tall, open goldenness; Tony's clever eyes and startling intellect; Clint's compact body and deep blue eyes... they're all incredibly attractive. If Steve wasn't away on his motorcycle trip to discover a little more of the America he'd missed over the past seventy years, Bruce would have no doubt that he'd be in the middle of it too. (Well, maybe. He isn't sure how Steve feels about modern mores and hasn't exactly had time to ask.) 

Then there's Natasha, whose beauty seems both casual and keenly honed, as much a weapon as the guns and explosives she carries on her. Bruce doesn't know what to make of her, though he's grateful they've had the chance to reconcile -- even to become friends -- in the wake of his accidental transformation on the Helicarrier. Still, as beautiful as she is -- and as utterly aware as _he_ is that the others are now all sleeping together on something of a regular basis -- he can't see himself approaching her. Not only are there various private concerns of his own regarding sex, but he has another concern weighing on his mind: Betty Ross. 

He hasn't seen Betty since Harlem, and he thought it was best that way. She'd been amazing through the whole ordeal, fighting with her father on his behalf, even somehow getting him to calm down and transform back from the Hulk into himself again. But the simple fact was that where he went, chaos tended to follow, and the last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt her -- even inadvertently. 

After the Battle of Midtown (as the papers had called it), he'd tried to get in touch with her. It wasn't exactly a secret that he... that the Other Guy... was a large part of that battle. He wasn't even bothered by that anymore: choosing to change had helped his ability to control the Hulk in some way, and the fact that he'd helped save New York felt -- rather unusually for him -- pretty damn good. Nor was it a secret that the Avengers were making Stark Tower their home for the time being, even though not all of them were likely to be around it all the time. So he'd figured it wouldn't be difficult to find her again; hell, he'd sort of figured she'd be the one finding him first. 

But on that front there had been nothing. It's been a few months, now, and either she's not ready to talk or she doesn't want to. He'd felt hurt at first, but then he'd reasoned that he'd left her over a year ago: she could have moved on, found someone else, decided he wasn't worth the wait after all. He tries not to let it bother him now.

And it isn't a bad thing to have some time to himself. Tony's set him up with a floor of his own for an apartment, and another for a workshop -- in suspiciously close proximity to Tony's, Bruce wryly noted. Fortunately, when he needs time alone, he's found a retreat in the Stark Tower's well-appointed library.

A man as modern as Tony Stark is wouldn't seem to need to rely on old-fashioned books -- books that require time to open and read and absorb. And yet, here is this entire floor, an anachronism in the middle of the sleek tower, its walls lined with volumes of all sorts: science and technology, histories, biographies, even a surprisingly thorough fiction section. It is here that Bruce has taken to disappearing, finding comfort in the insulated hush of paper, in the comfortable wide chairs.

And it's here that Natasha finds him.

He's in the middle of reading a recently-published paper on genetics when he hears the door slide open, feels the slight change in air pressure as a soft breeze against his face. He raises his head to see who's found his sanctuary and goes perfectly still, mouth agape.

Natasha Romanoff is dressed more casually than he's ever seen her -- more casually than he imagined her ever dressing, for that matter. A light skirt that seems to float around her legs, a silky little spaghetti-strapped top showing off her pale shoulders, her curls loosely framing her face: she's a vision, nothing less. A part of his brain is quick to remind him that she's a spy, an assassin: that whatever she wears is coldly calculated for the task at hand. The rest of his mind tells the first part to shut the hell up, because she's gorgeous and how often does he get to appreciate beauty like this? Not a hell of a lot, these days. If he were still at Culver, he'd feel like a dirty old professor, and Natasha a far-too-young-for-him coed -- and then Betty--

"Natasha," he says, clearing his throat. She's idly walking along one of the tall shelves that bracket the door, but she looks up at him with a little smile when he speaks, as if she's just been waiting for him to notice her.

"Sorry to interrupt, I was just bringing a book back." She holds it up -- a paperback whose cover he doesn't recognize, something that probably falls into the fiction section. "I know we have maids and cleaners and all that, but it feels weird not to pick up after myself, you know?"

He nods, swallowing. "Gotta admit the laundry service is nice, though."

That makes her chuckle -- a low, sweet sound -- and he drops the journal to his lap. _Just in case._ Natasha could break him with her little finger -- or she would, up until the other guy decided to break her. Either way, not a good outcome. "So," he tries, "I guess I'm not the only one who knows about this place now, huh?"

"I hope it won't make you avoid it from now on," Natasha says. She's approached the long table running down the middle of the room, to which his chair is adjacent, and she pushes herself up to sit on the solid wood. Her feet are bare, exquisitely shaped. He seems to remember something about her being trained as a dancer, and then he wrenches his gaze away before he's caught staring.

"No, no, of course not." He fumbles with the journal, trying to find his page again. "I just like it here because it's quiet, you know?"

She makes an absent sound of agreement. He'd hoped that would be enough of a subtle suggestion, but he can still smell her -- some faint, sweet smell of soap and fragrant shampoo, something that says _woman_ to the lizard part of his brain. "Well," she says after a moment, and he looks up again to see her lightly slipping off the table. "Now that I know where you like to disappear to when you need to escape your lab -- and Tony," she adds, with a wry little smile that he can't help but echo, "I'll know to come find you here."

"O-oh, that. That's really not." Christ, he might as well never have talked to a woman before. "I mean, not like I'm saying no, your company's more than welcome."

"Is it?" She's walking toward him now; Bruce watches her like he's been hypnotized. And maybe he has. It's been a long time since he's even thought of being with a woman on more than a fantasy level -- he remembers all too well a motel room and Betty, so real and vivid and _there_ and his heartrate climbing to dangerous levels -- and seeing Natasha now, he feels helpless. He can see the shadows made by her breasts in the fabric of her shirt, the tiny peaks of her nipples. His mouth goes dry.

"Natasha," he says, her name a dry whisper in his throat. When she leans in close, her mouth a breath away from his, her arms bracing her on either side of the chair, his throat works convulsively.

"Say no, and I'll stop," she murmurs. "At any time. Just say the word."

He doesn't even think about it. He just tips his head and leans up to kiss her. For a long moment, the library is so quiet that Bruce thinks he can hear the slide of her lips on his, even the delicate brush of her tongue as it teases his lower lip. It is, for lack of a better word, sweet -- at least until Natasha climbs into his lap and straddles his thighs, settling on him with startling ease. Then the kiss turns dirty, her tongue pushing between his lips, seeking into his mouth.

"Really?" he manages, between hot kisses, and she pulls back to look at him. Her eyes are already a few shades darker, her lips slick-wet, but she keeps still over him.

"'Really' what?" Her voice is hushed as befits their setting, which makes him smile wryly, lifting a hand up to cup the base of her skull, the soft curls twining around his fingers.

"This feels like a dream," he says. "Things like this don't happen to me."

"They do now," she mutters, and presses in to kiss him again. He can feel his heartrate stuttering and speeding, but he tries to ignore it, letting his hands smooth down her back, taking in the heat of her through the thin soft fabric of her shirt. He wants her; that isn't even a question. His mind cheerfully supplies a hundred images, Natasha naked and wrapped around him; wearing nothing but the skirt and sinking down on him; on her hands and knees before him--

He inhales sharply. He can't _do_ this. His head is already spinning; much more of this and he'll forget his control. A terrifying thought flickers into his mind: _he wants to_. No, he tells himself sternly. He can't harm Natasha; he _won't_ harm her. Not when she's giving him this gorgeous moment.

What he can do, though, is give her something in return for what she's doing for him. He slides one hand under her shirt in the back, just to feel smooth bare skin warming his palm; the other hand slips beneath the light hem of the skirt, where it lays loose on her knee. She makes a sound into his mouth, a low hum that sounds like approval and encouragement to him, and so he lets his hand ride up under her shirt, over her soft skin -- marked here and there with rougher patches, scars, reminding him all too well of who she is and what she does -- until his palm closes on a breast. Natasha breaks from the kiss, her head tossing back, her moan shattering the stillness of the library; in that moment, Bruce realizes they could be found by anyone.

He doesn't move his hand, too enraptured by the warmth of her, the fullness in his palm; but he does lift his head a moment to say, his voice gone rough with hunger, "JARVIS? Lock the library doors from the inside, please."

"Yes, sir," the AI replies, and a moment later there's an audible _click_ of the doors sealing shut. Natasha tips her head forward again and grins at Bruce.

"You're doing better than I am right now," she murmurs. "Wouldn't even care if we got walked in on."

Bruce inhales; Natasha's eyes are dark, the pupils wide, and when he slides his thumb over her stiff nipple, she cries out again, her hands clutching at him -- one in his hair, the other at his shoulder. It occurs to him that she might be acting for his benefit, but there's a part of him that just doesn't care: she's the one who came to him, after all.

Her hands find the shirt-button at his throat, deftly undoing it; one hand moves to the next while the other skims inside, and he's the one to gasp this time: her hand is small and deft, somehow cool, exploring him. It's when her hand moves lower, boldly curving around the prominent press of his erection in his trousers, that a warning bell goes off in his head. His pulse is racing, alarmingly quick; a green film seems to rise before his eyes.

"I -- I can't," he gasps, and all but pushes Natasha off his lap, panting out a command to Jarvis to unlock the library doors in his haste to escape. He doesn't look back; it'd undo him.

A long and very cold shower helps restore him to some semblance of humanity -- all he'll ever be, he reminds himself, sour and sluggish in the post-adrenaline letdown. Still shivering, he dresses again, puts himself back together. He doesn't dare go anywhere near where Natasha might be, not right now -- maybe not ever again -- so he decides on his lab; he has a couple of experiments to check in on, anyway.

He's sorry. Of course he's sorry, and he wants to tell her. It's not her fault he can't do this, can't be like other human beings with their basic needs, so simply and easily met. Anyway, she could go to any of the others. There's nothing about him that she could possibly want.

Preoccupied by his thoughts, his worry, he wanders back down to the lab. He'll have to apologize somehow; maybe a big flower bouquet? Natasha may not be the average woman, but most people he's known like sentimental gestures like that--

The lab doors open; the motion-activated lights within turn on, and Bruce freezes in the doorway. Natasha's leaning against the nearest table, her arms folded, her eyes like ice. Bruce actually starts to take a step back, the instinct to run beating at him. 

"You want to tell me what all that was about, Bruce?" Natasha asks. Somehow, miraculously, she's found just the right pitch: somewhere between petulant and confused, not quite angry (though he can hear that under the surface, all too clear). "Without running out on me this time?"

Though he doesn't think he's about to go all Hulk on her, Bruce still wants some distance between them; he moves into the lab, letting the doors close behind him, and then sidles strategically around a long table. "I, uh. I'm. I'm sorry about that," he says, and dares a glance up at her. She's still glaring at him. "Really," he adds, "really, really sorry."

A long moment goes by and then Natasha sighs, unfolds her arms. "All right," she says. "I can -- I can see that you are. But even so, Bruce: will you tell me why you just left like that? I thought you were enjoying it. I know I was."

He can see there's still some simmering arousal in her system; in the harsh overheads, her nipples are still taut beneath her soft shirt. He swallows hard and finds a pen on the bench, rolling it on the smooth surface.

"I was -- enjoying it, I mean. That's the problem, though." He can see her clear confusion and suddenly wishes he were any other man; she trusts him, even after he (after the other guy) nearly killed her on the helicarrier. She doesn't get it. "I keep enjoying things, my heartrate goes up, and..." He lets his hands spread in wordless description. "It's a very similar condition to anger, sexual arousal. Increased heartrate, faster breathing, less oxygen getting to the blood." Now he sees she's getting it, because her eyes go wide and her hands curl on the edge of the table where she's leaning. "I don't want to hurt you," he says simply. "If something went wrong..."

Natasha nods; her luminous eyes close for a moment, and he watches her inhale. He knows she's a spy skilled at undercover work, but at this moment, he believes she's feeling everything that shows on her face. _Trust_ , he thinks again in wonder. Her head tilts, her eyes ponderous for a moment. "If," she says, pauses, goes on. "If there were a way, would you still want to?"

A brief chuckle escapes Bruce. He lets the pen go and folds his arms around his chest, hugging himself. "Of course," he says. "I may occasionally turn into a gigantic green monster, but I'm not blind."

That makes a little smile curve at her lips, and she nods, straightening. "All right," she says. "Let me get back to you."

He blinks after her as she goes out, her temper apparently completely restored now. Before he can start wondering what she's thinking now, the nearest monitor begins beeping at him, and he turns to see what it says.

* * *

It takes Natasha nearly three weeks to work out her plans. Though she's determined to let nothing keep her from making this happen, the universe, as usual, has its way of intervening. There's a crisis involving Dr. Doom and a horde of idiot Doombots that keeps everyone busy for about forty-eight hours, and both before and after that she has to figure out ways to make a certain request of Maria Hill. Fortunately, in the past several years of working for SHIELD, she's learned enough bureaucrat-ese to phrase her request so innocuously that her true intent couldn't possibly be gleaned. She hopes, anyway.

After that, it's simply a matter of getting supplies arranged and then finding a time when Bruce isn't busy. The supplies aren't too much trouble, even though she knows she gets weird looks with the futon mattresses on a handcart in the service elevator; she ignores them, as always, her head held high and her eyes straight forward. Most SHIELD agents are intimidated into silence around her, anyway, which is how she prefers things. Until the group came together, the six of them, she didn't need any friends beyond Clint. She'd been conditioned to accept solitude in her life before escaping the Red Room.

Now it's different. She likes that. It surprises her even more that she's not bothered by her change in feelings. But if she can help another person be a bit less lonely, perhaps that'll erase a little of the red from her ledger, too.

Finally, she has everything in place. A private cell in a sub-basement of SHIELD's New York HQ -- the chamber's been reinforced much like the one briefly used to contain Loki on the Helicarrier: extra-thick glass, adamantium framing, an air system designed to release sedatives into the cell if necessary. Natasha's last act is to change her clothes before she calls over to Stark Tower and asks Bruce if he could come by the SHIELD building.

He sounds reasonably suspicious; she'd anticipated this, and she promises him it'll only take a few minutes, that they have some tech recovered from the battle site they'd like him to look at. All lies, but she knows she's got him when he sighs and pauses, probably rubbing the bridge of his nose, and then says he'll be over in an hour. She's already ordered the receptionist on the ground floor to send him down to this level, so as long as Bruce doesn't run into Tony or Fury on the way...

Well. She'll deal with that if it happens. In the meantime, she checks over the cell, makes a few final touches, then paces around the outside of the cell until her phone buzzes. A text from the receptionist: Bruce is heading for the elevators right now. _Perfect_.

When the door opens, she's ready, standing a few feet back from the doors. She knows exactly the picture she paints: the opposite of the sweet, all-American girl from her last attempt, now she's wearing a short black overcoat and fedora, high heels, her legs enticingly bare where they appear from beneath the overcoat's hem. 

Bruce stares at her for a long moment, then jabs a finger at the elevator's control panel. _Shit_ , Natasha says under her breath, and holds up her hands. "Wait," she says. "Please?"

"Natasha, I already told you--" he starts.

She holds out a hand. "Just -- just come with me for a minute?" she asks. "If you don't want to stay after I've explained myself, I won't try to keep you. And I won't try this again. Please?"

The moment trembles, quivers on the knife's edge. Natasha holds her breath. Then, as if resigned, Bruce takes a step forward, another, places his hand in hers.

It's a step. Natasha lets out a breath and leads him down the hall to the containment area.

* * *

"I thought," she says as they enter the room, "that if you were worried about changing, this would... keep you from hurting anything." _Or anyone_ , she doesn't have to add; Bruce can read that in her eyes. He's starting to think that she must be the bravest woman he's ever met. Hell with that: bravest _person_.

"Natasha," he breathes, taking in what she's done. The cell is familiar, he knows its specs inside out -- had to, when he was on the Helicarrier and a calculated risk. But she's got a couple of futon mattresses on the floor of the cell, pillows and blankets spread out to make it almost cozy. Outside, she's placed a folding chair, and he sees a radio next to it. 

"You see," she says. "You're inside, and... if you change, you'll be safe, and so will I."

"And if I don't?" He turns to look at her, sees the beginning of a sly smile forming on her lips.

"If you don't?" Her eyes perceptibly darken. "That's why I'm here."

His throat tightens for a moment; then he lets go of her hand and walks of his own free will into the cell.

Natasha follows him as far as the chair; as the door seals behind him, he turns to watch her undoing the sash of her coat. He'd had a sneaking suspicion what might (or might not) be beneath it, but his imagination isn't even close to the reality of her pale skin -- so much of it -- bared to his view. She wears a dark blue bra, lacy at its edges, and matching panties: matching the heels, too, now that he notices. Swallowing, he finds that he's stepped right up to the glass, his hands propping himself there. He can't help but cast a quick glance upward, and Natasha chuckles as she drops the coat to the floor.

"Don't worry," she says. "I made sure all the security cameras are disabled while we're down here."

"Thank you," he replies fervently. Her smile in response is nothing short of wicked. This is nothing like the Natasha who approached him in the library, all innocence and schoolgirlish sweetness; the woman before him now bends to the boombox and presses a button, and something deep and heavy begins to pound in the room, a thumping bass beat. When Natasha begins to move to the music, Bruce feels his mouth go dry. A corresponding heat stiffens his cock and shrinks his pants to something like half their size.

She's a trained dancer, he knows he read that somewhere. This doesn't seem like the kind of dancing anyone could be taught, though. The way she moves, sensual, rocking lightly on her toes and then down nearly to the floor: it's as if she's one with the music, channeling it. He wants her like he wants air, but he could watch her do this forever, too.

"Bruce," she murmurs, and he blinks up-close at her, only a few inches of thick plasglass separating them. Her breasts are pressed to the glass, her abdomen; he could almost touch her. He remembers how warm her breast was in his hand. "Doesn't seem fair," she says, "I'm mostly naked, you've still got all your clothes on."

He gets the hint at once, and the suggestion that goes along with it: this is a peep-show, with the most gorgeous woman in New York dancing for him alone. He clumsily kicks his shoes off, drags his shirt over his head, starts unbuckling his belt. Natasha grins and turns away from him, resting her back against the glass, and oh, she's got the most exquisitely shaped ass, lush round curves that he wants to grasp and grope and bite. He nearly tears his trousers off, yanks at the briefs beneath. Fuck, if he's going to Hulk out, he's going to do it for once without ruining his clothes.

When Natasha glances over her shoulder at him, he's surprised by the look in her eyes. She's so enigmatic, always so hard to read -- but right now, what he sees is naked hunger. For him. That rocks him with another wave of heat, and as she turns to face the glass again, one hand behind her to undo her bra, he takes himself in hand. The other guy is the furthest thing from his mind now.

"That's it," he hears her say, or maybe he just thinks he hears it. The music still pounds insistently in his brain, Natasha's body gliding and grinding to the beat, her hands cupping her bare breasts now, fingers teasing and tweaking the nipples to stiff points. His hand moves without real conscious thought and her smile gleams; she brings two fingers up to lick them, sliding them into her mouth suggestively, and he groans when she strokes them over a nipple again. He wants to be the one doing that, to suck her flesh into his mouth and tease with his tongue and teeth, to taste the sweat of her skin. Her other hand sleeks into her panties, and she leans hard on the glass, one shoulder propping her up as she strokes herself. He's definitely imagining the scent of her, rich and musky; there's no way he can actually smell her through the plasglass.

"Got me so wet," she rasps. Her hand works in her panties; he can tell she's got her fingers in herself now. He moans, pushes one hand hard against the glass to prop himself up, the other sliding fast on his cock. Any moment now he's going to change, he fucking knows it, but he's safe in here, he's safe--

Climax whites out his brain, the long-lost pleasure striking so hard that he can't even see for long moments. He sags to his knees, one fist still bracing him against the glass, and sucks in great gulps of air. Moments go by before he realizes Natasha's calling his name, and he raises his head to meet her eyes.

"Look," she says, and he does. Incredulous at first, then -- with a slow-welling sensation he recognizes as joy -- he catalogues himself. He's still himself. No green skin, no swollen muscles, nothing but _him_.

Natasha's eyes are dazed, but he sees happiness in them too, and he stalks to the door as she comes around to it, punching in the code to open it. The moment it slides open, she's crossing the threshold into his waiting arms.

* * *

She loses track of time for a while after that, engaged in the most pleasant pastime of helping Bruce rediscover the joys of sex. He more than makes up for abandoning her in the library, his skilled tongue bringing her to screaming orgasm more than once, and she returns the favor with a few favorite tricks of her own.

They've collapsed on each other, finally, almost on the verge of sleep, when Bruce smiles and kisses her hair. "A real bed next time?" he murmurs.

Natasha's chuckle is hoarse; she nods, pressing an answering kiss to his shoulder. "Works for me."


End file.
